It Is Only Through Mystery And Madness

I Have Plenty Of Machinery Around Me; What I Really Need Is A More Enchanting World In Which To Live And Work.

Though The Last Glimpse Of Erin With Sorrow I See, Yet Wherever Thou Art Shall Seem Erin To Me; In Exile Thy Bosom Shall Still Be My Home, And Thine Eyes Make My Climate Wherever We Roam.

Humility, That Low, Sweet Root, From Which All Heavenly Virtues Shoot.

From Plants That Wake When Others Sleep, From Timid Jasmine Buds That Keep Their Odour To Themselves All Day, But When The Sunlight Dies Away Let The Delicious Secret Out To Every Breeze That Roams About.

All That's Bright Must Fade, The Brightest Still The Fleetest; All That's Sweet Was Made But To Be Lost When Sweetest.